Del moved through the station like old furniture nobody questioned anymore. He knew every hallway, every retired lieutenant, every bar that used to exist within a five-mile radius in 1996. Del wanted admiration without evidence. And I think that’s when Del began to dislike me. Because I wasn’t impressed.

By the time I walked downstairs from the detective bureau, most of the day shift had already disappeared into the night. The station felt different after dark. For the first time in a long while, I wasn’t in a hurry to leave. The city was still awake. And somehow, so was I.

He moved between tables like he belonged to all of them, and none of them. Twenty years on, still the same rank, still close enough to the work to feel it but never quite part of it. Men like that don’t confront-they hover. Close enough to power to feel it, not close enough to hold it.